


face the light of wrath (rise up)

by ingenious_spark



Series: seize hope in your own two hands [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Casual Sex, Cultural Differences, Family Feels, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Introspection, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-LaCE Compliant, Not Eöl-Sympathetic, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Quenya Names, The Avari, War, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark
Summary: The War of Wrath spares no person in Beleriand. All are affected, and so, all must answer the clarion call of war, in one way or another.With two Silmarils back in their grasp, the Fëanárions stand strong, all seven brothers alive and well, eyes turned to the third and the fulfillment of their oath. Lómion stands with them, even as the forces of Gondolin finally stir from their unmolested hiding place, Turucáno finally stepping forward to reluctantly take his crown.But without Eärendil and Elwing's desperate plea, how will the tides of war turn?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is, obviously, the sequel to 'stare death in the face (and never back down)'! Unlike the first fic, this one will have shipping, and scenes of a sexual nature, hence the rating. All of the sex will be of a consensual nature. As always with my chapters works, my tags will evolve with the chapters I post, but anything that specifically needs a warning will also be flagged in the author's note of that particular chapter.
> 
> I hope this lives up to my first fic! Thank you all for reading and supporting me!

“Pardon me, I have a message for Lord Caranthir. I was told this was his house?” The courier looks tired, and a little annoyed. Lómion can relate- he'd spent the first few months in his new home getting thoroughly lost several times over. It's not a forgiving town they live in, in that regard, for the houses are all built high into trees, small and extremely well camouflaged. The only things built on the ground are animal pens, gardens, tanning shed, the fire pit they use for celebratory dinners, and the forge that's cleverly built into the side of a grassy hill. To untrained eyes it probably looks like a ramshackle camp more than anything inhabited, much less an actual village the size it really is. 

“This is his residence. Shall I give him the letter, or shall I fetch him for you?” Lómion offers, stepping away from the door to let the harried courier in. The elf nods, stepping into the tiny entryway. 

“Please, it's from his lord brother Maedhros, and I was instructed to deliver it into his hands. He did not wish it to go astray.” The courier replies. Lómion nods, slipping off further into the house to fetch Carnistir.

“Uncle Moryo,” he calls softly, rapping on Carnistir’s door.

“Come in!” Carnistir calls back, sounding distracted. Lómion smiles to himself, wondering if he's doing paperwork or reading one of those terrible ten-penny romance novels he loves so much. It had been a surprise to Lómion, when he returned to Carnistir’s home with him, that the extremely serious, often awkward elf had such a taste in books. Strangely endearing, to Lómion’s deeply traumatized self. 

He slips in, smiling at the sight of Carnistir curled into a squashy armchair, one cat on his lap and a second on his feet, glancing up from the thin, fragile pages of a novel with the smile that Lómion now recognized as the one he reserves for members of his family who haven't done anything to piss him off recently. 

“Everything all right? Curvo hasn't butted in on your forge space again, has he?” Carnistir asks lightly. Lómion shakes his head, smiling. Of the three sons of Fëanáro he now lives with, Curufinwë is the one Lómion gets along with the least, which is surprising, given that they at least share a vocation- smithwork. Curufinwë has a habit of being a little too lax about boundaries in the forge, though. Ever since Lómion had escaped he has found it difficult to share his forge space. He'd rather they both stuck to their designated halves of the forge. 

“No, Uncle Moryo, there's a courier for you. A letter from Uncle Nelyo, they say.” Lómion tells him, and Carnistir frowns, slipping a bookmark into his book and setting it on the arm of the chair. He displaces the cats, who voice their discontent loudly, and follows Lómion back out. 

Lómion steps out onto the tiny balcony to give them a chance to speak in relative privacy, looking out over his home.

It's been many years now, since Lómion’s desperate flight from Gorthaur’s clutches, and his successful theft of a Silmaril. He'd been distrustful and suspicious, but he'd followed Morifinwë Carnistir Fëanarion home anyway, taking upon himself the mantle of Lómion Írission. No longer Maeglin Eölion, Lómion had lost or killed that part of himself during his months long captivity. He hadn't expected Carnistir would live where he does; in a community most would disparage, a community of Avari elves.

For Lómion’s mother's people- Carnistir’s people too- the Ñoldorin elves of Valinor, the Avari are a source of great mystery and rumor, none of it good. According to Carnistir, the reasons stem largely from two sources. The first is religious disparity- the Ñoldor as a whole believing themselves superior to the Avari for having followed the Valar to Valinor, and thinking the Avari unenlightened and lesser for having not gone. It is even in the name: the Avari peoples don't call themselves the Avari, that being the name the Ñoldor foisted upon them. A name they hated- for who would want to be called ‘unwilling’? Another name that they hated somewhat less that the Ñoldor had given them is Moriquendi- dark elves, those who had never seen the light of the Two Trees of Valinor. Again among their names is the Sindarin epithet of the Laegrim, ‘green elves’, and the less complimentary Morbin, again the dark elves.

But these people call themselves the Lindi, the singers, and they are just people, capable of cruelty and kindness like any other group of elves. 

The second reason the Lindi are so reviled by the Ñoldor is much darker, and stems back to before the flight of the Ñoldor from Valinor back into Beleriand, and for Lómion it is a little more difficult to really believe. 

Back in Valinor, there had been a place called the Halls of Mandos, cared for by the Vala Námo, guardian of all the souls of the dead. That, Lómion believes, having been raised by his mother to believe in the One and the Valar. The part that is a little stranger, a bit harder to just take as a matter of faith, is the tale that apparently, if you desire to rejoin the ranks of the living, and require no more spiritual healing over the manner in which you died, you're allowed to return to life in full. As though you had just taken some kind of strange vacation. 

Apparently, long before the Ñoldor had left the safety of Valinor, the Lindi were being hunted by the dark forces of Morgoth, and dying. But the adults of the Lindi, it seems, must have actively chose not to incarnate back into the world. The children of the Lindi, however, had. With only the children incarnating in Valinor, it had given rise to vicious and horrifying rumor. That the Avari ate their children, or sacrificed them to false gods. Not the truth: that Lindi adults died more often than children, but did not incarnate again after death.

Lómion likes the Lindi he and his three new uncles live with. They really are just people. Mistrustful of strangers, but deeply welcoming once you have proven to be no threat. They have strange customs that Lómion has become fascinated by. Eöl had always held to the average Sindarin view of the Lindi: that the might not be actively hostile, but they could stay away, where they belonged, not mingling with the Sindar. Since Lómion delights in doing everything that his father would have hated, he finds great pleasure in comparing his Sinda-Ñoldorin culture with that of the Lindi. 

The part that Lómion has had the most difficulty understanding is the fact that the Lindi follow different religious beliefs. Instead of faith in the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar, they worship a figure they call only the All-Mother, who seems to fill Eru Ilúvatar’s role as creator of all. Additionally in their beliefs they fear Dunnspenn- the ‘dark cloud’ that seems to represent both Morgoth and Gorthaur- and Dunncogn, the dark hunter, who stole away their brethren. 

It's strange to realize that Oromë, the Vala whose dearest wish was to save the Firstborn from the dangers of Endórë and bring them safe to Valinor, is reviled by the Lindi. As near as Lómion has been able to tell, it stems from the fact that he had led the Calaquendi elves to Valinor, never again to be seen by the Lindi. Except then they  _ had _ returned, with a strange light in their eyes, and bringing war in their wake. With that kind of logic, Lómion doesn't really blame them for reviling Oromë. 

“Lómi, there you are,” Carnistir’s voice breaks Lómion from his musing, and Lómion glances over his shoulder, noting the faint crease of worry between Carnistir’s dark eyebrows. 

“What is it, Uncle Moryo? Did Uncle Nelyo have bad news?” He asks, frowning a bit himself. Carnistir wiggles a hand back and forth. 

“Somewhat? I had been expecting it, but it is bad.” Carnistir beckons him back inside and they slip through to his office once more. “I should fetch Turco and Curvo…” Carnistir mutters. Lómion nods- he probably only wants to say whatever it is once.

“I can go fetch them,” he offers, and Carnistir nods, smiling his thanks. Lómion slips out and heads out the door. At this time of day, Tyelcormo is likely with his Lindi teacher, and Curufinwë is probably at the forge. Lómion heads to the forge first, because it's easier, heading along rope bridges built to be quickly taken down, and jumping between thick, sturdy branches. Once close to the hill, Lómion drops down to the ground on light feet. His skill at climbing trees without aids like ladders or ropes has vastly improved living out here. He finds it fun, actually. He heads in to the forge, seeing the smoke lazily escaping the chimney. 

“Curufinwë!” Lómion calls from the doorway. He doesn't want to go in and sweat through his nice, non-work clothes in five seconds. A muttered swear and some clattering later, and Curufinwë approaches, looking a touch grouchy.

“What is it, Lómion?” He asks, and Lómion shrugs. 

“Carnistir received some kind of expected bad news from Maitimo. He'd like it if you could make it to his study so he can tell everyone all at once.” Lómion says. Curufinwë sighs heavily. 

“I can make it in, say, half an hour?” He offers, and Lómion nods. All told, if Curufinwë had been in the middle of something, that's not a bad estimate. 

“I'll let him know,” he replies, and heads back up into the village. Carnistir, Tyelcormo, Curufinwë, and Lómion all technically live together, but their living spaces are built into four adjacent trees, which gives them all private spaces. Carnistir’s house is the largest, and has the cooking area they generally use, as well as the small dining area. Lómion pops up to check that Tyelcormo isn't actually in his house. It's empty, so Lómion heads for Tyelcormo’s teacher's house.

When Tyelcormo had first moved out here with them, he'd been stunned by the Lindi hunters’ abilities. As a famed hunter of the Ñoldor, he'd found the differences in the style of hunting fascinating, and requested that one of the hunters take him on as an apprentice. They had agreed after some convincing, and Tyelcormo had swiftly risen through apprenticeship to journeyman-hood, and was soon to get his Lindi mastery. Not that he knew that. Lómion only knew because he is one of the ones that have been tapped to organize the party after Tyelcormo returns from the solo hunt they're soon sending him on. 

He knocks against the door, and pokes his head in. Tyelcormo and the lead hunter are sitting quietly side by side, fletching arrows.

“Uncle Turco, I need you back home. There's been a letter from Uncle Nelyo, and Uncle Moryo needs to talk to us. Curufinwë says he's going to be about a half hour.” Lómion says, loathe to break the stillness. Tyelcormo finishes fletching another arrow and looks up to him. 

“Sounds good. I'll be there in a half hour, then. Apparently I'm headed out on a solo hunt, and I want plenty of arrows.” Tyelcormo’s pale purple eyes are sparkling with glee, and Lómion can't resist grinning back. They broke the news, then. Tyelcormo’s likely to be gone from a week to a month to bring back a suitably impressive trophy for the village.

“Congratulations,” he says warmly, and Tyelcormo pouts slightly. 

“You knew!” He complains jokingly, and Lómion laughs. 

“Yes, I knew. I'm helping with the celebration preparations for when you return. So you'd best get something really impressive, or me and mother will be disappointed!” He jokes back. Tyelcormo’s smile softens, like it always does when Lómion mentions his mother. He’s not wholly certain if Tyelcormo loved his mother like a sister, as he claims, or if it had been deeper, and just never fated to happen. Truth be told, he's probably better off not knowing. Lómion has definitive issues with father figures- first his own father, Eöl, and then his actual uncle, Turucáno, who had attempted to fill the same role, instead of being his uncle. Lómion has had much better luck with these cousins he calls his uncles. 

“I strive every day to make you and your mother proud, Lómion.” Tyelcormo says, voice tinged with a deep, uncharacteristic seriousness, before he breaks it with a bright, savage grin. “I'm going to fetch back something huge. You'd best be prepared!” 

“Just be sure it's not so huge you can't get it back to the village,” the lead hunter offers her own input dryly, never looking up from her own fletching. “Those arrows won't fletch themselves, Turco.” She warns, and Lómion laughs lightly, excusing himself. He heads back home. 

“They'll be about twenty minutes or so now, Uncle Moryo,” he says upon his return, stealing a slice of the toast Carnistir has been preparing himself. Carnistir swats at him with an exasperated, exaggerated sigh. Lómion bites into it smugly, enjoying the hearty brown bread and its topping of creamy, salty cheese and sweet apricot preserves. 

“Make your own,” Carnistir complains, but ends up making them both a second slice. Carnistir is a soft touch when it comes to Lómion. He tries not to take huge advantage of that fact. 

After they've both finished their toast and acquired a cat each on their laps, Tyelcormo and Curufinwë come in. Curufinwë is still somewhat soot-streaked and sweaty, and Tyelcormo’s hands are tacky with glue, bits of feather clinging to his clothes. Carnistir rolls his eyes fondly at both of them. 

“Don't you two look cosy!” Tyelcormo laughs. Curufinwë looks somewhat put upon. 

“What's this about, Moryo?” He asks brusquely, clearly displeased to have been interrupted in whatever he'd been doing. 

“Nelyo’s sent word. He believes that it's time for us to join the war effort.” Carnistir says, effectively sucking the joy from their gathering. Tyelcormo frowns. 

“So the fighting has reached the point of war? Instead of just skirmishes with Morgoth’s forces. Is Dior sweating yet?” Tyelcormo asks with a mean little smile. Carnistir gives him a mildly reproving look. 

“If Dior is ‘sweating’, as you put it, it is at the expense of our two older brothers. Have a care, Tyelcormo,” he says sternly. “Nelyo writes that he has written Dior twice, and received no response. He will have to move, though, Nelyo wishes to pull back his forces, to a point close to Nan Elmoth,” he says with an apologetic glance at Lómion. Lómion nods quietly. “He's asking us to gather what forces we can and join him there.” Tyelcormo is frowning now. 

“Has he sent word to the mouths of Sirion? Círdan’s peoples have moved down there.” Tyelcormo offers.

“I'm assuming he's sent word to Ambarussar as well? Ñolofinwë’s peoples ended up fairly evenly split between them and Sirion, as far as I'd heard. And Findaráto’s people went there as well, to my knowledge.” Curufinwë observes. “They're much more unified than your peoples in this area are.” 

“I can tell him how to send word to Gondolin, if he hasn't managed it already.” Lómion says softly. “I know Turucáno is, if only by name, High King of the Ñoldor. That kind of symbol might rally more peoples to the fight.” All three of them look to him with varying levels of concern. 

“If you'd be willing to pass on the methods, I've detained the courier for a few days at a guest house, so that I might pass along any news I can get.” Carnistir says. They all nod. 

“Getting the Lindi to go to war will be difficult.” Tyelcormo says after a moment of silence. Carnistir winces. “They have that cultural taboo about going to war. Stems back to Denethor, doesn't it, and his group of the Lindi, what did they get called here?”

“The Laiquendi,” Lómion supplies quietly. 

“Right, Denethor and his Laiquendi were the first casualties of the First Battle, weren't they? They tried to fight back and got decimated, because their armor and weapons weren't as advanced as Morgoth’s forces. The Lindi hold that as a story of why war is a fool’s errand.” Tyelcormo nods. “I mean, their word for ‘warrior’ also means ‘fool’, for the love of the Valar. How are you going to swing this, Moryo?” 

“By pointing out to them that they live in this land, and the forces of darkness aren't going to rest until all free peoples are subjugated and enslaved, or they are beaten back. I'll also tell them it isn't mandatory, and suggest that if they wish to, they should evacuate down to Ambarussar’s lands or to Sirion, where they will, at least, be safer. I won't force anyone to fight. Additionally, I had considered making the ones who do agree into a kind of scout band. I believe their cultural skill sets are more attuned to that than to outright warfare. I'll be writing Nelyo to offer that suggestion, along with the rest. It seems like a decent compromise between needing more manpower and respecting their cultural aversion to war. Of course, we won't know until we try it.” Carnistir shrugs.

“Is that everything? I get the feeling I should get to work on swords and daggers.” Curufinwë says dryly. Lómion internally agrees with him, thinking of possible ways to reinforce the light leather armor the Lindi preferred to wear. Carnistir nods.

“This isn't going to interfere with my mastery trial, is it? I was going to head out in two days.” Tyelcormo asks. Carnistir shakes his head. 

“It’s probably going to take months to get everything prepared. We can spare you for this, I know it's important to you.” Carnistir smiles softly. Tyelcormo nods, looking relieved. Carnistir frowns slightly. “Though- will you be getting the rest of those- ah, marks?” Lómion hides a laugh at Carnistir’s doubtful tone. The Lindi use tattooing to mark their vocation, and for the Ñoldor- well, for any elf who once lived in Valinor, bodily alterations like tattooing or piercing are considered highly scandalous. Lómion, despite his heritage, or maybe because of it, doesn't really get it. 

The Lindi have a very structured set of community jobs: farmer, hunter, weaver and seamster, beastmaster, crafter, musician, healer, and dreamseer. All of them have a different bodily positioning for the tattoos that signify their profession, though the design itself is left up to the one receiving the tattoos. Tyelcormo’s tattoos, those of the hunter, curl around his forearms, stopping just short of the wrists for now. 

Once he has his mastery, they will extend all the way down his fingers from his elbows, and the delicate tattoos framing the outer corners of Tyelcormo’s eyes will be extended into a mask shape, denoting two of the hunter’s greatest assets: eyes to stalk their prey, and hands to bring it down, by bow, by spear, or by knife, the three main tools Lindi hunters use. The tattoos, Tyelcormo had once told Lómion, would ideally also extend to mark the ears, but tattooing erogenous zones is apparently incredibly painful, so they don't. The tattoos are given in stages, covering more skin as one progresses through their mastery. Apprentices have the smallest sets, and then, if it's a good fit, they proceed to build on the tattoos up to journeyman, and finally to master.

Lómion is very regretful that there aren't any marks for smith. Their dreamseer- the religious and spiritual center of a Lindi community, and the one who does the tattooing as part of their job- does beautiful work. But the Lindi don't work with metal- what they call earth’s blood. It's not an art they ever developed, and the closest thing to it they have is the crafter, who works with stone and wood. 

Two days later, in the faint grey light of false dawn, Lómion sees Tyelcormo off. He's the only one awake to do so, but Tyelcormo doesn't fault his brothers for the extra sleep. 

“I'm off,” he murmurs in the grey predawn, and Lómion nods. 

“Good luck. Travel swiftly back to us,” Lómion tells him, trying not to let his mind conjure up the scenarios where he doesn't come back at all. Tyelcormo nods, and reaches out as though he's going to ruffle Lómion’s hair, but at the last minute he draws Lómion into a tight hug instead. Lómion leans into him, returning the grip. 

It's strange, how much Tyelcormo reminds Lómion of his mother. It makes a hard lump form in Lómion’s throat, blocking up the words he simultaneously does and doesn't want to say- a simple ‘I love you’, but loving people has never been simple or easy for Lómion. Part of him longs for an easier life- that perhaps Tyelcormo had been his father, even though that would never have happened. The other half balks at the idea of anyone laying claim to being his father ever again. It would be easier for him, he thinks, if it were socially acceptable for him to call Tyelcormo ‘mama’. But he's not quite there yet. Maybe when (and it  _ is _ when, not if, never if) Tyelcormo returns, they can talk. 

“You should go.” He mumbles into Tyelcormo’s shoulder. Tyelcormo pulls back reluctantly, and, quick as a flash, kisses Lómion’s forehead, delicate and light. Lómion flushes, eyes filling with tears at another one of mother’s gestures that Tyelcormo shares. 

“I'm off then. Be safe, little Lómi.” Tyelcormo says warmly, and melts away into the forest, leaving Lómion feeling quietly bereft.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves two scenes of a sexually explicit nature- one is casual sex between three consenting adults, and will not affect any endgame pairings. The other is a exploratory masturbation scene. Both fall at the end of this chapter if you would like to skip one or both of them. 
> 
> A quick guide to my OCs:
> 
> (Note- all of the Lindi names have been taken or back-constructed from Nandorin by my lovely husband, WaywardDesertKnight)
> 
> Yarha: Lindi, name meaning 'snarl'. Master hunter, Tyelcormo is apprenticed under her. Identifies as female, takes she/her pronouns
> 
> Neldor: Lindi, name meaning 'beech'. Master weaver/seamster. Identifies as male, takes he/him pronouns.
> 
> Thara: Lindi, name meaning 'grass'. Journeyman beastmaster. Intersex, identifies as nonbinary, takes sie/hir pronouns.

Tyelcormo is tracking a boar. It's a big one, even from boar standards, a male with huge tusks. It will feed the entire village quite well for at least a week, and the bone and ivory will be good for many things. The fat can be rendered, and the hide tanned. None of the beast will go to waste in this village. 

He's also, unsuccessfully trying not to think of what Lómion had told him, before he left, what he had told Lómion. He wants to make Írissë proud, but Írissë is gone. To care for the last piece of her still dwelling in these lands- her son, her Lómion, her child of the night- it soothes the deep feelings of grief and injustice that her death has left him with. 

Part of him still believes Lómion should be his child. Tyelcormo deeply respects Lómion’s desire to never again have a father, but it hurts, somewhere deep in his chest. He and Írissë had loved each other deeply, a complicated and simultaneously simple kind of love. They hadn't known each other as children, meeting instead as new blood and seasoned hunter to Oromë’s Hunt. 

For a long time they hadn't even known they were related, sharing a tent for their hunts. Nothing intimate had ever happened between them other than a few kisses and some flirting, because the purpose of him being paired to her had been a different kind of intimacy. An exchange of knowledge. Tyelcormo had been the one to help Írissë sharpen her claws for the first time, as it were.

Once she graduated to become a seasoned hunter herself, Tyelcormo had actually asked her if she'd ever thought of marriage, an awkward, slightly bumbling foray into trying to suss out how she felt for him. Írissë had smiled warmly at him, and told him she wasn't sure she'd ever get married, hadn't ever considered it. He'd been a bit discouraged, but she'd told him she'd rather live with a friend for the rest of her days. Sex, for her, wasn't really an intimacy she was particularly interested in. She'd rather sleep as they had been sleeping, tangled together for warmth under the stars, and eat as they had been eating, stealing bites of each other's food, and speak as they had been speaking, without many words, but with a meaning and a language that didn't  _ need _ many words.

That had made Tyelcormo consider himself, and the role sex played in his life. He liked sex, that was certain. But those intimacies Írissë had described were equally important to him. He'd had sex a few times, only with members of the Hunt, because sex outside of marriage was a taboo in Ñoldorin society. But those bed partners he'd had… they had been friends, and still were, and most of them, he knew, would be up for another tumble if he asked. So he didn't really need sex from her. Not like he needed,  _ wanted _ , those other intimacies. 

So he had returned to her, and talked about it. She'd been happy, and very accepting of the fact that he might seek out their other hunt mates for sex. They had pledged to remain together, as fast friends. Once they had spoken of that, Írissë had told him that, someday, she felt she might want a child. Tyelcormo had smiled, and told her he'd be happy to help her with that, when the time came.  _ If _ the time came. She'd smiled at him warmly and told him that there was no one else she would trust to not get the wrong idea of the request. 

They had even given each other private epessë, Lanuroimion and Lanuroimiel, as unimaginative as it had been, for they both considered each other the best hunter they'd met- other than Lord Oromë, but he, they joked, didn't count, because he was the Vala of hunting. 

And then, after five years spent out together in the wild with Oromë’s Hunt, they had returned home, to Tirion. It had been a jarring shock to both of them to discover that they were half-cousins, the children of half-brothers who hated each other deeply. 

Tyelcormo had invited Írissë to meet his family, and his mother, Nerdanel, who kept up with the births of all their family, despite her husband’s opinion of them, had recognized Írissë. It had created an odd, artificial layer of awkwardness to their next meeting, before they had talked about it, and settled back into a comfortable relationship. 

They had never spoken about Írissë’s hypothetical baby again, and it had been increasingly difficult, toward the end of their time in Valinor, to be together. Especially after Fëanáro had drawn blade on Ñolofinwë, Írissë’s father, and later, after Tyelcormo had taken his father's Oath. 

After his father had burned the boats at Losgar- and nearly killed their youngest brother in the process, he had deeply regretted the Oath. He'd been so certain he would never see Írissë again. And, in truth, he never  _ had _ seen her again. He'd shackled himself to Curufinwë, who had broken into irreparable pieces at the burning of the boats. 

Curufinwë, who had left his wife and young son in Valinor for the second wave of boats, Curufinwë, who had asked his wife to stay behind so that he might make sure the landing would be safe for them. Even Maitimo, who had asked their father so innocently and unknowingly, that they might send the boats back for their kin; for Findecáno, more precisely, with whom Maitimo had nearly as complicated a relationship with as Tyelcormo’s was with Findecáno’s sister, Írissë; had not broken quite so comprehensively as Curufinwë. Little Curvo, who was cursed to not only look like their father, but also have his delicate temperament.

And then, a long, long time after, he received word of her death- her  _ murder _ , at the hands of a  _ husband _ , a husband when Írissë had told him she never intended to marry- from the lips of a boy who had her smile, her dark, fiery eyes, and her tip-tilted nose. To learn that he'd had a chance, however slim, to have prevented her death. He'd arrived at the end of Curufinwë’s conversation with Eöl, after he'd bid him be on his way, and quickly. At that point, he'd not thought much of it. 

He'd spoken later to Curufinwë when Lómion had said that Eöl was his father, and Curufinwë had confessed to knowing they'd been married, but not knowing how to tell Tyelcormo. Tyelcormo had been greatly wroth with his brother, but he couldn't tell him not to follow them to Carnistir’s home.

Tyelcormo shakes his head, trying to clear out his woolgathering. He's being far too nostalgic for his own good right now. He's supposed to be on a hunt. A proper Lindi hunt, which will net him another mastery. Master of the Hunt of both the Ñoldor and the Lindi has a lovely ring to it, and he wants it. 

And he also wants the boar he's hunting to not turn the hunt about and hunt him instead, so he really needs to get himself together. 

Tyelcormo heads towards the river he can hear, and finds a waterfall. Perfect. He sets his weapons and equipment on the bank and strips, wading in and getting under the thundering roar of the water. The waterfall drowns out his thoughts beautifully, and he focuses on getting himself back into the proper headspace for hunting. 

Once he gets out and air-dries, and pulls his clothes back on, he has a plan. 

The easiest way for him to kill a fully grown adult male wild boar by himself, is to set leg traps for it. Trying to dig a pitfall with sharpened stakes at the bottom could work too, but it would put more holes in the leather than he'd like, as well as take a lot longer. With leg traps he can get it off balance, onto its side, and kill it with a clean stroke, if all goes according to plan. 

He sets to work tracking the most likely trails the beast uses, and strategizes the best places to set the traps, before setting four, in the most likely places. Tyelcormo also fashions a sledge of fallen wood and the rope he'd been permitted to bring with him. He'll want to get his kill back home as quickly as possible, so they can gut and bleed the beast, and preserve the greater portion of the meat. Some of the meat will be eaten fresh, at the celebration, but the rest will be smoked or salted.

It's almost textbook, how perfectly it goes, and Tyelcormo feels as though it's Írissë guiding his hand as he cuts open the throat of the beast with his stone knife, after he finds that it's fallen to one of his traps. Hot blood spills over his hands, and he takes a flailing hoof to the temple, but it's done. He sings a blessing to Oromë, lifting up Írissë’s name. He no longer names Oromë when he prays to him, but he can't  _ not _ pray to him, not with how much of his life he's devoted to following the Vala. 

Tyelcormo rolls the beast onto its back to save the blood spilling. It won't do to leave a blood trail heading back home. Then he darts through the forest to fetch his sledge, and quickly dismantle his other traps, and his small camp. He's almost out of breath when he gets back to his kill, grateful it's been left unmolested. Tyelcormo wrangles the beast up onto the sledge, and hooks the harness he's fashioned around his shoulders. He'll have to head back to cover his tracks after he delivers his kill, but that's to be expected with a kill of this size. 

Tyelcormo’s temple throbs as he pulls the dead boar back to the village, but it's just a bruise. He's had enough head injuries to be able to tell- it's going to swell up and turn horrible shades of purple and red, but there's no internal damage. 

Yarha and Lómion are the ones who greet him upon his return, at just barely dawn. Yarha has been a good teacher- she's the lead hunter of the village- and today she bestows on his a rare, quiet smile and a nod. He presses a fist, still caked in tacky dried blood, to his heart and nods to her. 

“Go, cover your tracks. I'll string this fine fellow up for bleeding.” Yarha tells him, and he obeys with alacrity, undoing his harness and springing back into the woods. It's easy to coax the underbrush back into shape with a touch of magic in his voice, and to brush away tracks and tufts of coarse hair. Soon Tyelcormo heads back to the village, and assists with the processing of his kill. 

They feast that night, on boar roasting in the cooking pit, and food that the others in the village prepare for the celebration, once news of his success has spread. Tyelcormo keeps the tusks as his prize, though he's not yet sure what he wants to do with them. The leather can be used to make the lighter leather armor that the Lindi favor, and with war on the horizon, Tyelcormo intends to do just that. 

Lómion looks happy, amid the chaos of this celebration for Tyelcormo, and his heart aches, but in a good way. Lómion has seen so much pain and suffering in the relatively short span of his life, and it fills Tyelcormo with joy to see him smile- to see him laugh, even, eyes sparkling. Tyelcormo is soon distracted, though- Neldor and his spouse, Thara, are approaching him. 

“Congratulations,” Neldor tells him warmly. He's a master weaver and seamster, and his spouse, Thara, works with the animals as a beastmaster. 

“Thank you,” He says, grinning. “Can't wait to finish up my markings with Yúla.” he puts in, glancing down at his forearms. Thara laughs, light and airy. 

“Are you still trying to convince Yúla to tattoo your ears?” Sie wants to know, and Tyelcormo flushes. 

“I never asked her to tattoo them! I only pointed out that a hunter also relies on hearing a great deal. I mean, what about blind hunters? Yarha said she knew one, once, so they do exist.” He defends himself, still smiling easily. Neldor and Thara are staring at him rather intently, and he's not sure how to react. It's a little uncomfortable- does he have something on his face? Blood, maybe? He'd thought he got it all off after finishing with the gutting and butchering, when he'd taken a bath, but maybe not. 

“I think you'd look good with them,” Thara says with something warm and promising in hir tone. Tyelcormo blushes, glancing between Thara and Neldor. Unless he's missed his mark, Thara is flirting with him, and Neldor is perfectly fine with that. Is the awkward staring some cultural custom they haven't run into yet? 

“Thanks?” He manages to say, thinking as quickly as he can for some kind of diplomatic way to ask about the staring. He can't, though, and he doesn't want this to get awkward. They don't know each other fantastically well, but Yarha and Thara are good friends, so sie and Tyelcormo are, at least, acquaintances. He can't think of a way, so he just asks, bracing himself. “Is there a reason you two are staring at me?” He asks, and it comes out sounding a touch uneasy, unfortunately. Both pairs of eyes, sea blue green, and dark earthy brown, immediately drop. 

“Ah, sorry about that then,” Neldor mutters, bobbing his head towards Thara, who looks a little disappointed. Tyelcormo frowns. 

“Wait, I meant culturally. Did you two forget I'm Ñoldo, not Lindi? If the staring means something in your culture, well, it's not something I'm familiar with.” He tries to explain. Thara looks a little sheepish, a pretty rosy undertone warming hir brown skin. 

“Ah, my mistake, then, I think it did slips my mind,” sie says. “Um, it's flirting. The staring, I mean. Because it signifies that you are so lovely we can't stop looking at you, or something of that nature.” Sie shrugs. Tyelcormo blushes darkly.

“Wait, really?” He asks, flattered and a touch worried. Are they looking for something long term, or just a fling? “Thank you,” He says glancing between them. “Ah- not sure what you would want from this, can we get that bit of the way first?” Neldor cocks his head in question. “I'd be all right with an occasional or one time sort of arrangement. I'm not- not looking for anything long term.” He can't help the melancholy that seeps into that statement, and Thara puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“We weren't looking for anything long term,” sie assures him. “Was it Lómion’s mother?” Sie asks, and Tyelcormo looks up, startled. Thara smiles. “Sometimes you look at him, and there's a bittersweet longing in you. You act so much like his parent, and he lets you- he encourages you, actually.” 

“Yeah,” Tyelcormo breathes the confession. “Yes, I was deeply in love with Írissë.” It feels like a balm to finally speak those words to someone else. 

“We've veered far away from flirting,” Neldor jokes softly, and Tyelcormo laughs. 

“Yeah, we have. But I needed to make sure we were all on the same page.” Tyelcormo offers. Neldor laughs, waving it away. 

“Communication is important in this sort of thing. But yes. You're lovely, Tyelcormo, and we'd like it if you shared our bed for the night. It's a celebration, after all, the celebration of your mastery. If not us, there are a few others who'd approach you.” Neldor tells him. Tyelcormo blinks, surprised. 

“Lucky for us, we got here first!” Thara says lightly, hand abandoning Tyelcormo’s shoulder in favor of winding a strand of soft, wavy white hair around hir fingers. “Your hair is like bleached bone, and your eyes are like lavender buds. You're very beautiful.” Tyelcormo grins. 

“That's more the kind of flirting I'm used to,” he admits. Neldor laughs, tugging on a silver lock of Thara’s hair. 

“Sie’s always been a talkative flirt.” He confides with a conspiratorial wink. 

“Well, I for one, am glad sie is.” Tyelcormo reaches out and tugs on Thara’s hair, like Neldor is. Thara pouts at them both. “I'd like to join you, for the night,” he confirms, and leans forward a touch hesitantly, before kissing Thara. Sie kisses back eagerly, and Neldor hums softly. 

“Well then, we've got a bed to get back to,” Neldor says, warm and low, and Tyelcormo shivers pleasantly. 

It's not that fair to their house, after a brief check in with Carnistir to tell him he had alternative lodgings for the night and not to wait up. Carnistir had been quietly scandalized, always worth a chuckle, but had said, stiffly, that he'd tell the others. 

Neldor and Thara’s house is cozy, perched pretty high up, and their bed is big and soft, one of the loft style beds that takes up, well, the whole loft. There is a hole in the roof with a moveable panel to cover it in the rain, and the half moon shines into the room, gilding Tyelcormo and Thara’s white and silver hair, and casting Neldor’s dark brown hair in shadows like ink. 

Neldor kisses Tyelcormo, and Thara’s hands slide around him from behind, untying the sash of his folded front tunic. He shivers as sie slides it off his shoulders, leaving him shirtless to two sets of roaming hands. Neldor hadn't been wearing a shirt in the first place, so it's easy to glide his hands over his skin, find his nipples and tweak them gently. There's the sound of shuffling cloth behind them, and Tyelcormo breaks off the kiss to glance over his shoulder. Thara has taken the moment to strip entirely, and sie is absolutely gorgeous in the moonlight. Neldor distracts him again with a gentle nip on his earlobe, and Tyelcormo moans softly, shuddering at the feeling. Thara laughs softly, and Tyelcormo and Neldor somehow manage to struggle out of their pants. 

Tyelcormo finds himself on his back between them, Thara kissing him and stroking his cock, while Neldor kisses and nips along his chest. Oh, they're  _ good _ at this. He reaches for them, stroking their hips, before sliding around to the front. He strokes both their cocks, and Thara breaks the kiss off with a gasp, resting hir forehead against his shoulder. Neldor chuckles softly.

“How do you want to do this?” Tyelcormo asks, voice throaty and warm. Neldor nuzzles his ear, making him gasp, hips bucking. 

“I like giving and receiving equally well,” Neldor says. Thara nods. 

“The same with me, though I have a little more of a preference for giving.” Sie says. Tyelcormo manages a slightly dazed smile. 

“Funny, I like both too.” He murmurs, and they all three share a giggle. “Back at square one, then.” 

“Mm, how about you in the middle, since you're our guest,” Thara murmurs, hir hand joining Neldor’s on Tyelcormo’s cock. He moans loudly. 

“Like that idea,” he manages raspily. Neldor chuckles. “Like the thought of one of you fucking me while the other takes my mouth. I'm good with my mouth,” he promises slyly. Thara makes an intrigued noise. 

“I do have a thing for pretty mouths,” Thara murmurs. “Maybe after we've recovered from the first round, I can fuck you, while you fuck pretty Neldor?” Sie offers. Tyelcormo nods quickly.

“Yeah, that sounds really good,” he murmurs. Neldor nods against his shoulder. 

“Thara has the best ideas,” Neldor murmurs. They take a moment to rearrange, Tyelcormo helping Neldor spread a thick spare sheet over the bedding so they won't have to change it later, as Thara gets a jar of oil. Soon Tyelcormo is on his knees between them, thighs spread apart as Thara fingers him open and Neldor keeps him upright, kissing and nipping at his ears in a way that just makes him lean further into Neldor, shivering. 

Once Thara deems him ready, sie withdraws hir fingers, chuckling at the way his hips buck, and he whines softly. 

“Shh, beautiful hunter,” sie murmurs into his ear. “Get on your hands and knees, won't you?” Sie asks, and Tyelcormo eagerly obeys, Neldor helping him lie down, instead of just flopping. Neldor then shifts behind him, and there are soft noises Tyelcormo identifies as him slicking up, before he grasps Tyelcormo’s hips, pressing the head of his cock to Tyelcormo’s entrance. Thara waits for them to get settled, seated in front of Tyelcormo patiently. “Let me know when you're ready,” sie murmurs. Tyelcormo nods, gasping. 

“I am, though, come on,” he mutters, looking up at hir. Sie laughs warmly. 

“Impatient much?” Thara asks, amused, before sliding forward until Tyelcormo can get his mouth on hir. He braces himself on his elbows, getting his hands on the insides of hir thighs. He takes a second to admire hir, before lapping at the folds hidden behind hir cock. Thara tastes warm and slightly salty, and Tyelcormo licks his way up to the tip of hir cock, suckling briefly on the head. He does this a couple more times, until Thara grabs his hair and shoves him against hir folds. He smirks against hir skin, and devotes himself to hir, a hand reaching up to stroke hir cock in time with his tongue. 

Thara and Neldor make such pretty noises above him, and Tyelcormo knows he's not going to last long like this, it's been too long since he's had sex of any kind. Neldor is thick and warm inside him, hitting Tyelcormo’s sweet spot regularly, once he angles his hips right. Tyelcormo squeezes his muscles around Neldor, enjoying the moan he gives. Thara is breathing hard and fast above him, and he thinks sie might be about to come as well. He redoubles his efforts. 

Tyelcormo and Thara come at nearly the same time, nerves alight and crying out. Neldor comes after two more hard thrusts, Tyelcormo shuddering as his cock glides against sensitive nerves. 

Tyelcormo feels nearly boneless as Thara and Neldor help him shift around until they're all curled up together, waiting until their energy replenishes for the second round. Hands stroke across skin, words murmur between the three of them, and Tyelcormo hasn't been so relaxed in quite a while. It's lovely. 

Soon enough, though, their hands and his become a bit more purposeful, arousing their bodies again as they kiss and moan and gasp. Thara slides into Tyelcormo’s body as he fingers Neldor open. Sie feels just as exquisite as Neldor, and finds his pleasure points even faster, somehow. 

Neldor’s still a bit tight when Tyelcormo slides into him, but the other elf is the one who had said he was ready, and judging by the way he's moaning, he likes it. Still, Tyelcormo goes carefully. Thara slows hir own pace in response, and the sex becomes soft and slow and almost lazy. 

Lazy sex has to be the kind Tyelcormo enjoys the most. There's no rush for anything, and orgasm just creeps up on the three of them, washing over them like a wave. They collapsed in a pile, and Tyelcormo nearly falls asleep before someone pokes him to get cleaned up. The three of them clean up lazily, and Neldor loans Tyelcormo a sleep shirt. The extra sheet gets bundled into a soaking tub to wash later, and they curl up together, moon still bathing them in sleepy light through the window. 

Tyelcormo sleeps well this night.

* * *

Lómion wanders back home after the party winds down, a little disappointed he hadn't been able to really talk to Tyelcormo before he had, according to Carnistir, ‘run off for a highly scandalous sexual encounter’. Lómion’s trying not to think about that. Sex is still a strange concept to him, as silly as that seems. Even when he thought he loved Idril, he'd never really thought about having sex with her. His thoughts about her had been nebulous and sweet, and the most intimately he'd ever thought of her was of kissing, nothing more.

Lómion sits on his bedroom windowsill, setting his chin in his hands, staring up at the stars and tapping his dangling heels idly against the side of the house. 

Should he want sex? Many people do. Then again, there's other people who don't seem to, like Carnistir. Or perhaps Carnistir’s case is more a lack of opportunity combined with his deeply held cultural beliefs about sex? Lómion's never asked him about sex or relationships, so he really doesn't know.

Lómion’s not sure he ever had cultural views on sex. He's definitely never  _ had _ sex, though. The only time it ever really came up when he was growing up was one night in his late eighties, when he'd seen the bruises on his mother's body after accidentally coming across her bathing in the river. He'd immediately turned away from her to allow her privacy, but the full moon had made stark the finger and hand shaped bruises in her skin and he had demanded, somewhat shrilly, what had happened to her. She'd donned her robe and cuddled him close, and told him sadly that she wished he had never seen the marks. She had talked him through sex and sexuality, told him how it was supposed to work for consenting adults, and it was then that he realized that his father didn't just hurt him. That Eöl hurt his mother, too, only worse, that he hurt her physically. 

Lómion realizes, dully, heels stopping their tapping and pressing firmly against the house, that a part of his mind thinks that all sex is something that leaves people bruised and in pain. Even though his mother told him it was supposed to be an expression of love and trust. Lómion’s own concepts of love and trust are still somewhat skewed, he knows, so it's little wonder he doesn't want sex. 

Or are they related at all? Is he overthinking things?

Lómion takes a deep breath and tries to release his emotions with his exhale.

How does he feel about sex? Maybe he should start somewhere a little simpler. How does he feel about masturbation? What does he think about, does it make him feel good, like how it's supposed to. It's not something he does often, and when he does, he just tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. Additionally, he hasn't really done it at all since his capture. Sex had been something he'd been regularly threatened with- not something Gorthaur had ever carried out, either himself or by proxy, but often enough to keep him on edge.

He feels safe now, though. If the orcs come for him, if Gorthaur comes for him, he has people who will fight for him, for his right to be free. 

Maybe, if he takes his time with himself and his pleasure, he'll learn a bit more about himself. Lómion swings his legs back in and stands, closing the shutters for some privacy and finding a towel- sex is messy, he knows that much. 

The best way to learn is hands on, he recalls firmly, and takes off his clothes, before lying down atop the towel on his bed. 

Lómion closes his eyes and slows his breathing and thinks of nothing, clearing his thoughts away until he's focused on the way his chest rises and falls with his breath. He sets his hands against his chest, stroking his body, feeling the dips and contours of his muscles, the smooth, knotted skin of his scars. He runs his hands along his abdomen and over his thighs. 

Lómion tries to imagine it's someone else touching him. Someone he wants to touch him, who he's given consent to touch him. Someone he trusts, maybe even loves, like his mother had said. 

He can't quite do it. His body is reacting to the gentle caressing, though, so it's not wholly a lost cause. Lómion tries to remember what he used to think of when he did this. Had it been anything? Is this just a purely physical act? Surely there's some sort of emotion involved. There is in all of those terrible novels Carnistir reads.

Lómion tries thinking of one of those scenes, and strokes his cock. 

That doesn't really work either, although the touches are nice. Lómion gives up trying to think about anything and concentrates on the physical aspect instead. The way pleasure builds slowly in him, coiling tight in his belly. He's never really focused on the journey, as it were, only on the outcome. 

Lómion’s free hand drifts over his skin, trying to find other pleasurable spots. The curve of his hips feels lovely if he drags his fingers ever so lightly across his skin. Gently pinching his nipples produces a different kind of shock of pleasure. He hums softly- this is nicer than he thought it would be, a slow building within him. 

When he comes, he feels utterly relaxed and kind of drowsy, a little strange, considering he hadn't planned on sleeping tonight, hoping to catch Tyelcormo whenever he gets back from his rendezvous. Lómion has to force his muscles to behave as he slips into the small washroom to get cleaned up. Once he's done, he pulls on a nightshirt and falls into bed, asleep nearly as soon as his head hits the pillow. He can always find Tyelcormo in the morning.

Lómion sleeps, soundly and without any memorable dreams, a rare and welcome occurrence for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depiction of injury, blood, gore, and uh, Fëanor, I guess? 
> 
> Three new OCs for this chapter:
> 
> Alcamírë- Ñoldor, name meaning beautiful jewel, identifies as female, takes she/her pronouns.
> 
> Morilindë- Ñoldor, name meaning night song, identifies as genderqueer, takes they/them pronouns.
> 
> Cethëa- Ñoldor, name meaning inquisitive spirit, identifies as male, takes he/him pronouns.

Carnistir prepares amply for the Lindi-style community meeting he has requested to hold after Tyelcormo returns from his hunt. Carnistir has a methodical, logical mind, and has the best luck of the three of them to convince the Lindi that they either need to flee or go to war with him. He hates the idea of it- Carnistir knows better than most, the horrors of war. They live with him, and too often he dreams of them.

Sometimes he wakes convinced the blood of the elves of Alqualondë still stains his hands, splattered in thick streaks over his clothes and skin and hair. Mingling with the tears of horror that slide down his cheeks. Trying not to see broken bodies of the seafaring folk all around him, staining the white, bejeweled sands with stinking blood and entrails.

Other times he wakes up smelling smoke, and hearing the screams of Ambarussa as he emerges from the cabin of a boat that their own father set afire and leaps into the ocean, the screams of his littlest brothers as Ambarussa’s twin swims out to him, dragging him to shore. Curufinwë had been shattering, Tyelcormo holding him together and away from self injury, Maitimo and Macalaurë had been raging at their father, so it had fallen to Carnistir to shove Ambarussa into action, seeing that the second twin had not yet died. He had been forced to hold together the bubbling, burned skin and flesh of his littlest brother, for once cursing not his father, but his mother instead, for naming the youngest of them Umbarto, the fated, after Fëaráro had protested giving them the same name.

Sometimes he wakes up breathing ash and blood and tar, watching his father burn up from the inside out on a desolated battlefield as he rages into death. Whether the fire that consumes him had been some prophecy that his grandmother Míriel had foreseen, burning himself alive through the intensity of his own fëa, his soul, unable to be contained any longer by his hröa, his body; or some foul spell of Morgoth’s, none of them would ever know.

Other times he wakes unsure if his eldest brother had ever been rescued from that fated mountain peak, severed of his sword arm from the elbow joint, scarred and grieved in a way Carnistir cannot understand, and probably never will. His eldest brother, once sweet and gentle, almost maternal in their youth, who now grips sanity by the barest thread.

War has broken the sons of Fëanáro, all of them, though they all still live.

Maitimo, the cheerful, the loving and kind, is cold and quiet now, grasping what chilled comfort he might. He twines copper and gold threads through his hair to remember the one who brought light to his life, one he had never been allowed to or allowed himself to love in the way he ached for. Broken by captivity, yet somehow keeping himself together.

Macalaurë, the loud, the impetuous, the virtuoso of music and song and dance, plays funeral dirges and battle songs more often than not, now. He'd been forced to take up his brother’s position after Maitimo had been captured, and it had hardened him.

Tyelcormo, the wild and untamed, has shackled himself to the position of caretaker, though he is ill-suited to it. No longer as wild as he once was, and the absence of the Hound that he had been gifted by Oromë, once never far from his side, is as obvious to the brothers as a gaping wound. Tyelcormo without Huan is a strange, sad sight.

Curufinwë, named Atarincë by their mother, ‘little father’, for his resemblance to their father, in face and in manner, falls deeper into that resemblance every year that passes, and all of them watch him with deep, growing concern. His wife and son have abandoned him, and honestly, Carnistir thinks that had probably been the best choice they could have made.

Ambarussa, the elder of the twins, has distanced himself from his brothers with his twin, while pretending not to. He will still come when bid to by a summons, but he's no longer the sweet and light hearted prankster, as quick with his tongue as he had been with his needle, when he sewed them clothing that his twin had designed. Their father had taught Ambarussa to the burning of the ships, that not even family can always be trusted.

Ambarussa, sometimes called Umbarto, and rarely Ambarto, had never quite recovered from his near burning to death. He’s still heavily scarred from it, and there are parts of his hair that will still not grow back. He refuses to appear in public without wigs and heavy makeup, and the brothers all abide by his choices. Privately, he often wears a headscarf that covers both head and face. His lungs are still weak from the smoke he had inhaled, and his hands have a fine tremor to them.

Carnistir, the fourth son, the exact middle child, sometimes thinks he's gotten off easily, compared to his brothers. His flesh is still whole, he never had someone so beloved to him that their loss scarred him irreparably, and what traumas he deals with, they _all_ deal with.

He's woolgathering now. Maybe as a way to avoid thinking about the fact that Tyelcormo is participating in a _liaison_. Carnistir knows the Lindi are sexually… more liberal than the Ñoldor, and it’s never bothered him, but it's also never directly affected him. To be truthful, he's always suspected that his older brother had previously had liaisons with his hunting partners, but it had never come up so startlingly baldly.

It makes Carnistir think, somewhat uncomfortably, of his own, singular lover, the one he'd never said anything about. Haleth had been good to him- and good _for_ him, too. She had a talent for getting him out of his own head, and out of his house, too. He'd thought, maybe, that he loved her, but the one time he asked her to marry him, she had looked at him, smiled, and told him that if they'd married, they'd be miserable. They were better as friends, and they loved each other as friends, but it wasn't a relationship for marriage. Not to mention the fact that, as much as he had loved her, she had still been mortal, in the end. Human, and prone to aging and dying.

Still, she hadn't left him bereft after she'd left him during her old age and eventual death. Though it had been… unintentional. Humans had children differently than elves, a fact he hadn't known until he visited once after nearly a year away from her, and immediately had a baby thrust into his arms when he'd arrived.

That had led to a long talk about babies and pregnancy. Humans, to his shock, had a cycle, much like many animals, and could get pregnant unintentionally. She'd been equally surprised, though, when he'd told her that, for two elves, pregnancy was, by necessity, always planned. After all, the two parents had to each put part of their very soul into the child, so it couldn't happen unless they were both actively _trying_ to have a child.

To his embarrassment and Haleth’s exasperation, it had happened twice more, before Haleth had informed him they were no longer going to sleep together. Honestly, he hadn't blamed her, as much as he loved his children. She hadn't told her kin of them- as far as they knew, she'd never even had sex. He'd respected her choice and not made any kind of fuss over it, quietly taking over the lion’s share of child raising. After all, it had essentially been his mistake each time. Haleth had helped where she could, but she'd never quite been cut out to be a mother. They'd remained friends until her death, even exchanging letters after she had moved away in her old age.

They are still close by, even, living in this very village. Carnistir has never quite known how to tell his brothers he has children, though. It's a source of great hilarity for the three of them. When Tyelcormo, Curufinwë, and Lómion had all followed him home, he'd had an emergency meeting with them, that mostly consisted of Alcamírë, Morilindë, and Cethëa laughing at him.

His brothers still haven't figured it out, strangely enough, or if they have, they haven't said anything. It's not like it's a great secret- his children all derive their surnames from his own name, Carnistir, which is incredibly obvious. Then again, with the informal way Lindi live, surnames don't often come up- Lindi don't even really have them, usually identifying themselves by the names of both parents, or just their mother, if it does come up. When he'd thought, at the riverbank where he first met him, that Lómion had been one of his brothers’ child, he'd hoped, quietly, that it would lead to a good opportunity to reveal his own children. Unfortunately, that hadn't happened.

Unfortunately, Carnistir can no longer tarry awkwardly. He's going to meet with his family- all if his family that lives within the village- before the community meeting. Which means he's going to have to tell his brothers and his sort of nephew about his children. Alca, Lindë, and Cethyo are going to laugh at him again. Then again, apparently it's their jobs to laugh at their beloved father, at least according to his youngest, Cethëa.

He slips out of the house once his notes are in order, padding along the rope bridge over to his children’s house. He lets himself in, and Morilindë looks up, where they're seated at the table, an oil lamp illuminating their work. It's a picture- a portrait, actually. Of Lómion, done in pastels, Morilindë’s favorite medium. He'd known they knew each other- it would be hard not to, living in such close proximity- but he hadn't known they knew each other that well. Perhaps this won't be as hard as he'd thought.

“That looks beautiful, Lindë,” he tells his child. They grin up at him, face and hands smudged with pigment.

“Thanks, Papa. What's up? You've got that look. The thinking look, the one Cethyo says makes you look constipated.” They say cheerfully. Carnistir sighs heavily, rolling his eyes, but he feels his face and shoulders relax.

“Cethëa is a brat. You remember how I told you three about the summons?” Morilindë’s smile fades a little.

“You're addressing the community tomorrow, right? It was passed along during the party. It's probably going to be more an early afternoon gathering, rather than a morning one, you know.” They say, glancing out the window. There's still many lamplit windows, and Carnistir won't kid himself here, he knows many of them will be drinking, smoking, and possibly even fucking, given the festive attitude.

“I'm aware. That's why I thought we might have a family meeting, before the community one.” He says, resting a hand on their shoulder. Morilindë acquires a small, sly smile, and at that moment, it feels to Carnistir eerily like looking in a mirror. How haven't his brothers just intuited that these are his children? Are they just that inobservant?

“Finally going to spill the beans?” Morilindë asks, dark brown eyes sparkling. They're the only thing they got from their mother, other than a slightly browner skin tone. Carnistir’s eyes are a messy mix of blue and green and grey. He likes Morilindë’s- Haleth’s- dark brown eyes better. They're warm and comforting. He makes a face at them.

“Yes, I'm going to have to tell them about you. You aren't making this any easier.” He grumbles. Morilindë softens.

“You were always going to have to tell them eventually, Papa.” They say gently. Carnistir sighs again, wrapping an arm around their shoulders and kissing their forehead. Morilindë leans against him with a soft hum.

“I want to tell them, you know. It was never my intention to keep you three a secret at all, much less for this long.” Carnistir sighs. “It's just that it kept escaping my mind when you were little. You were all born so close to each other, and I was so busy. And now, I'm just… it's been so long, and this is so _awkward_ . I want to shout it from the _rooftops_ that I have the three most beautiful, intelligent, amazing children in the world.” Morilindë laughs at him, but not unkindly.

“No you don't, Papa. You want the world to leave you well enough alone.” They say warmly. Carnistir pouts sightly. They're not wrong, per say, he just doesn't like having it pointed out like that. “I'll let Alca and Cethyo know.” They promise, and Carnistir drops another kiss to Morilindë’s hair before letting himself back out, drifting along the boughs of the trees.

The night passes, soft and soothing, and dawn breaks faster than Carnistir prefers, heart racing and hands sweaty. He catches Tyelcormo easily, and his older brother quietly agrees to a family meeting, a glint of puzzlement in his eyes. Lómion agrees, once he's been wrested from his bed, sleepy and soft, and Curufinwë hasn't slept at all, and is therefore immediately available, face and hands smudged with charcoal from drafting.

Carnistir makes breakfast, full of nervous energy, and his three children drape themselves artistically around the kitchen, waiting for Lómion and Carnistir's brothers to finish their morning ablutions.

Lómion's the first to arrive, and he greets the three with an amused smile, like he knows what's coming, leaning against the counter that Morilindë is perched on, purposefully close to their father. One less person to actually tell, then.

Tyelcormo stumbles in yawning, and slouches into a chair, before frowning over the table at Cethëa in confusion.

“Thought this was supposed to be a family discussion,” he yawns again, and Curufinwë, choosing to lean against the doorway, scowls darkly.

“Yes, it _was_ ,” he says, tone dark and dangerous. Carnistir's heart skips a beat, worry crashing through his brain. He thought the worst he'd have to put up with was Tyelcormo's teasing, but Curufinwë- he sounds _angry_. Carnistir's carefully planned, gentle ways to break the news to his brothers evaporate from his mind, and he's left with miserable gut instinct.

“It is a family meeting. These are my children.” He says, stiff and deeply awkward. Bluntness has always been his fallback. He keeps his attention on the food before him, atop the tiny, peat-burning stove. His shoulders ache with tension. Morilindë sets a gentle hand on his shoulder, but it doesn't do much to ease that tension.

“Wait, are you telling me that when you were gonna read me the riot act about Lómion being my kid before we got that cleared up- are you saying that you had three kids of your own and you were still gonna do that?” Tyelcormo asks incredulously. “Moryo you Valar-damned hypocrite.” He sounds amused, more than anything, and relief is a cool wash over Carnistir's mind. He pulls down plates and begins serving breakfast.

“I will admit, part of me was hoping that would be an easier way of actually telling you all about them.” He admits lowly. Curufinwë's silence is somehow deafening, and as he turns to hand plates to Morilindë, he glances over. The plates almost slide from nerveless hands before Morilindë catches them with a worried look, not a morsel of food escaping.

There's something edging on dark and mad within Curufinwë's expression, something Carnistir hasn't seen since their father died. It chills his blood. He has to swallow hard before he can actually speak.

“Curvo-” he tries, but Curufinwë slashes a hand through the air and the words die in his throat.

“So this is how it is, _Moryo_?” The childhood nickname falls from his lips like honeyed poison, and Carnistir flinches, even as Tyelcormo jerks around to look at him, eyes wide and alarmed.

Carnistir's hands are shaking. Morilindë hands the plates hastily to Lómion, and inserts themself between their father and his brother. Cethëa and Alcamírë stand as well, his children closing ranks around him. Carnistir licks dry lips.

“I don't understand, Curufinwë,” he replies, and it's a blessing that his voice comes out as steady and even as it does. He foregoes the nickname, not wishing to twist the relation between them. He catches Morilindë's wrist and gently pulls his child back to his side. He will not use any of his children as shields. Curufinwë sneers at him, and Carnistir can barely look at him- all he can see is _Father_ , strange and mad and horrifying.

“You hid your children from us. What else might you be hiding?” Curufinwë spits, and Carnistir can't figure out what he's accusing him of. “You're just like father. If you're willing to hide this from us, there's no telling what else you're hiding. After all, where's their mother?” Carnistir's mouth falls open in utter shock, and Tyelcormo looks equally befuddled.

“I… I did not, I could never,” Carnistir's words are fragile and bright, fracturing under their own weight, and he gives up, staring at his immediate younger brother with deeply wounded confusion. Alcamírë grips his shoulder.

“Our mother is dead, _Uncle_.” She says, voice quiet and strong. “But she was not killed.”

“It's the way, after all,” Cethëa murmurs gently, “the way of mortals, to age and pass away. Our mother was of the race of Men, and there is no doubt in my heart that Papa cherished her.”

“They may never have married, but they were the closest and dearest of friends.” Morilindë confirms. Cethëa and Morilindë both take one of his hands, and he bows his head, overcome, suddenly with a deep well of love for his children.

“That may be the case. But secrets are always deadly.” Curufinwë says, cold as the grinding ice. Tyelcormo finally stands, purple eyes alight with anger, striding to stand between Carnistir and Curufinwë. Carnistir feels a hand close over his other shoulder, amd realizes that Lómion has taken up the empty spot behind him.

“Can you even hear yourself speak, Curufinwë Atarincë?” Tyelcormo's words are a soft snarl, and Curufinwë looks briefly startled. “It's not Moryo that's turning into father. It's _you_.”

A deathly silence falls over his little kitchen. Carnistir honestly hadn't expected Tyelcormo to come out and say it like that. They've all been tiptoeing around Curufinwë, like he's standing on broken ice. None of them want to be the reason he falls through.

Curufinwë stares, blank and pinched, for a moment, before he turns abruptly on his heel and leaves.

“What now?” Carnistir manages, in a cracked whisper. Alcamírë steers him to a chair and pushes him into it.

“Now we eat something.” She says sternly, and she, Morilindë, and Cethëa finish dishing out breakfast. Tyelcormo heaves a shaky sigh, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Should we go after him?” Carnistir asks, feeling lost and vulnerable, a child again, asking for his older brother's help.

“No. Well. Maybe later. Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. Let him stew about it. Maybe it'll help.” Tyelcormo says, the slump of his shoulders and the tight lines around his eyes making him look old suddenly. Carnistir nods silently.

It's a quiet, tired breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was at least one comment saying they were sad there was no chance of Haleth, which I found deeply funny?? Because half of this chapter was already written. :) Surprise!!! She's here in spirit.
> 
> Sorry this took so long, one of the scenes gave me a very hard time, and I've been very busy, and also very distracted.

**Author's Note:**

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